Joshua Meyrowitz stepped up to the stage at the Laugh Factory in Hollywood and announced himself to the crowd as “your fellow autistic,” spurring whoops and applause.
“One of the hardest things as an autistic person is being able to relate to people,” the comedian said, “and as a stand-up comic, you are required to relate to people.
“With an audience full of autistic people, I don’t have to relate to s— now!” Meyrowitz declared as laughter rippled through the room. “I’m in the zone, brother!”
It was a Wednesday night at the storied club on Sunset Boulevard, and in many ways, the show unspooling on its brightly lit stage sounded like any other comedic lineup in the Sunset Strip area, with punchlines about genitalia pics, politics, married life and the grosser side effects of Ozempic.
But its goal was a lofty one: Make the raucous world of stand-up comedy a welcoming place for people whose brains work differently. This show was playing out before a crowd full of autistic adults and other neurodivergent people, many joined by their neurotypical family and friends.
The tweaks to a typical show were small ones: A “chill-out space” for anyone who needed to step out for a break. Lowering the volume on the music playing inside and avoiding any sudden, noisy changes in music between acts. Letting the comedians know to lay off if someone jumped up or blurted something out.
Funnily enough, making a comedy show inclusive for neurodivergent people is “not a big adjustment at all — it’s just something that no one’s thought to do,” said Rob Kutner, a comedy writer and co-producer of the Wednesday show.
“You need almost nothing, except a little bit of thoughtfulness.”
When Jeremiah Watkins heard someone in the audience interject, “What about trains?” the comedian welcomed the chance to riff.
“What about trains?” he replied enthusiastically. “Are you a fan of trains? Nice. What’s your favorite kind of train?” he asked before launching into his next bit.
At a smaller comedy show for an autistic crowd months earlier, Watkins recalled, he surprised an audience member who quoted a “Harry Potter” line at him by responding with an impression of Professor Severus Snape.
The show that Wednesday, dubbed “Let It Out,” can be a model for comedy performances around the world, Kutner and co-producer Mike Rotman said. The pair worked with advocates including Autism in Entertainment, which promotes the employment of people on the autism spectrum in the industry, to publicize and document the show.
What they want people to know is that inclusion can be easy. “This should be normalized,” Rotman said. “This should be existing weekly.”
As growing numbers of Americans are diagnosed with autism — a condition that can shape how people think, relate to others and experience the world — and generations have grown up with the protections of the Americans with Disabilities Act, there has been an ongoing push for inclusion in daily life.
Many public spaces have taken steps to better accommodate neurodivergent people and their sensory needs: Some movie theaters offer “sensory friendly” screenings where lights remain on and sound is softened. Museums may have designated days and times when fewer people are admitted to limit crowds.
Even so, Maja Watkins, whose work focuses on teaching social and emotional skills, says there is still a dearth of fun, accessible options tailored for autistic adults.
“You’re in high school. You go to prom, and a lot of times the special ed department will make these fun opportunities for you. And then you graduate and slowly services and programs just start cutting away,” Watkins said.
Her husband is a comedian — the one who riffed on trains that Wednesday night — and she said that her 38-year-old brother, who has autism, loves comedy shows but has sometimes disliked the loud noise or late hours.
“How cool would it be if it was a comedy show that made everybody laugh … but maybe the seating is set up in a way where people aren’t so squished together?” Maja Watkins said. “Maybe it’s not crazy loud at the beginning? Maybe if somebody needs to take out a fidget … to be more calm, then that’s OK?”
Or being able to get up and take a break without facing a barb from someone onstage — “that’s what my brother would have needed to stay through the whole show,” she said.
The Wednesday crowd included young adults taking a class at the Miracle Project, an organization based in Los Angeles, that teaches social skills through improv. Teacher Sandy Abramson said for her students, “going to a place like this can be overwhelming because you have to adapt to the social norm, which is, ‘Don’t talk. You can’t take breaks.’ Things like that.”
At this show, she said, “they don’t have to feel nervous or anxious about how they will be perceived.”
Kole Spickler, 23, was excited for the show to start. “I just like being out in public,” said Spickler, who is autistic and counts Jim Gaffigan and Brian Regan among his favorite comedians.
Like many autistic people, he can be frank, sometimes humorously so. Asked about what he was learning in social skills class — a Miracle Project staffer at his side — he said, “I’m not sure if I really learned anything.”
Had he enjoyed it?
“Yes. Sort of,” he said. “Some of my peers can be really annoying.”
During the show, the crowd relished jokes about autism. “I was born with autism, but everything else is my parents’ fault,” Meyrowitz quipped. Kruger Dunn told the audience he had been diagnosed on the spectrum late in life.
Doctors had told him, “You don’t lie. You like to memorize a lot of facts, and you won’t go for help even if there’s trouble,” Dunn said. “I’m like, ‘So what you’re saying is, I’m trustworthy, smart, and I ain’t no snitch?’”
“You use the word ‘disability’ a lot, but those sound like abilities to me, Doc,” Dunn said to laughter and applause.
But Maja Watkins and others involved in organizing the show at the Laugh Factory stressed that accommodating the crowd didn’t mean doing a comedy show all about autism, nor discarding their usual jokes. Rotman said some comics had asked him, “Are you looking for me to do neurodivergent material?”
“No, not at all,” he told them. “Do your set … Do your seven minutes.”
Laugh Factory hostess Carmella Rogers said she insisted on working that Wednesday night after finding out about the show, because “I wouldn’t have to mask as I normally would” to appear neurotypical to showgoers.
In her line of work, you have to “show a lot of emotions, be really happy all the time,” which can sometimes be difficult for Rogers, who is autistic and has attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder. In a break between shows that night, she said was gratified that the comedians hadn’t infantilized the neurodivergent crowd.
“People tend to think if you’re autistic, you need to be treated like a child,” she said. “I’m just like a regular adult — there’s just certain things about me that make me different from the average person.”
Ahead of her set, comedian Laurie Kilmartin said she was “mostly just doing a regular show,” but not reacting the way she might otherwise if someone piped up in the crowd.
“I’ve done every hell gig possible in the world so I’m not easily thrown,” said Kilmartin, before hastening to add, “Not that I am implying this is a hell gig — I’m just saying!”
Stand-up might seem, at first glance, like an unexpected place for autistic people, who may miss social cues or communicate in ways that typical people struggle to understand. But it has often been a haven for people who don’t fit the norm.
Meyrowitz, who has been performing for more than a decade and a half, said his anxiety made it hard from him to work “normal jobs,” but in comedy, “we’re all a bunch of weirdos.” He once thought he would live with his parents his whole life. Now he shares an apartment with other comics.
Comedy, Meyrowitz said, “gives me a community of friends I never had before.”
